<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Behind Bears by UniverseOnHerShoulders</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188705">Behind Bears</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders'>UniverseOnHerShoulders</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Diary/Journal, F/M, Humor, Prison</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 05:53:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,560</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Condemned to live out the twenty-first century in prison, the Master ruminates on his plans for the Doctor, just to keep his mind sharp. All seems to be going well, until the arrival of a <em>very</em> unexpected prisoner...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Behind Bears</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/hookedphantom/gifts">chenkasinclair (hookedphantom)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I would like to be able to lend a solid, reasonable explanation to this. The best I have is that the idea occurred to me and a pal told me to write it.</p><p>Enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Day 1</strong>
</p><p>It’s laughable that these pitiful humans really think they can keep me here, as though bars and concrete and manual locks are enough to keep a Time Lord in custody. They’ve barely evolved their way into conversing in words of more than one syllable, and yet they seem to think that their woefully inept prison can contain me, or that I might show some remorse for my so-called ‘crimes.’ I’m not sure what exactly is considered so illegal about dispatching seventeen humans with a mortar strike – personally, I like to think of it as pest control – but they do seem rather bothered by it, so I suppose I can humour them for the odd day or so. And besides, the dear old judge did look so stupefied by my name, and hearing him say it was so deliciously satisfying; a man in uniform has always been precisely my type, so I’m sure I’ll have some fun in here. I’ve got a few projects to work on and I might need a few willing – or unwilling – test subjects, and these really are the dregs of humanity, so it’s not likely anyone will be too bothered if they go walkies. I’m sure the Doctor would be thrilled to know that I’m lowering myself to her level and socialising with the riffraff, interacting with her adorable little pets out of choice. I know how fond of them she is, so I hope she appreciates my efforts as streamlining my Weapon of Mass Destruction to ensure they all die with minimal suffering. If there’s a universe-wide Nobel Peace Prize, I think this qualifies me for it, without a doubt. I might have to suggest that to the Shadow Proclamation – once I’m out of here, I think I will. I’ll <em>have</em> to win, given that I’m the founder of the prize. What a terrible shame and a horrible burden… I think I can just about live with the glory of it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 5</strong>
</p><p>Escaping from here would be so laughably easy that I might as well saunter out with my hands in my pockets, whistling the Imperial March, for all the resistance these clowns would put up. Devil’s Island was at least <em>challenging</em>; to escape from here would be lowering myself to the pitiful, pathetic level of these backwards little half-evolved apes – at least this early, anyway. Besides, there seems to be a thriving culture of hatred and desperation lingering below the surface of this shithole, and I’m sure there’s some openings for a being of my particular talents to sow some seeds of malcontent. It would be criminal to waste a mind this sharp by not exploiting some of the delicious little cavemen, and I’m sure I could sharpen my skills by lingering on a little longer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 15</strong>
</p><p>Escape Attempt the First. Was apprehended by Warden (a pint-sized sweaty little man, who thinks the guards don’t know that he rifles through their lockers) and returned to my dingy little cell in what they seemed to think was disgrace; and yet my loyal band of half-witted followers cheered me like a hero as the door slammed behind me, not least for having the gall to attempt what they’re all too weak-hearted to even bother trying, or even to try thinking up. They’ve become so institutionalised that it’s a wonder they remember to breathe without some moronic officer telling them to inhale and exhale; they’re already looking to me for leadership and I fully intend to test my death ray on them as soon as I’ve stockpiled enough forks from the canteen to power the thing. It is endlessly satisfying (albeit demeaning) to surround myself with lackeys of such inferior intelligence and evolution to the Time Lords, and I can see the appeal for the Doctor – having pets around to gaze at you with wonder could become quite addictive. But my, this cell! So small and so stinking; and when night comes, so cold. I remember the old days on Gallifrey, and how marvellous my cell there was; a young’un could get quite intoxicated from the shocks that came from even touching the door, and I certainly did. That would pass the time now; instead I suppose I could read some of the drivel that passes for classic literature on this backwater rock, and try to understand what, precisely, fascinates the Doctor about it all. Or her pretty little pet – Clara. She was a teacher of English before my people sensibly picked her off; perhaps she was responsible for some of the illiterate types swarming around on my wing, in which case her fate was quite deserved.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 16</strong>
</p><p>Shakespeare is absolute tosh. I’m unsure how he survived long enough to write most of this drivel; I distinctly remember making at least seventeen attempts on his life. Maybe this Romeo and Juliet nonsense has a lot to do with it. Humans have always been fans of such primitive things as ‘love’; what a repulsive, despicable concept. The only thing love is good for is making you vulnerable to your enemies, which is where humanity is going wrong. I was rather relieved when Romeo and Juliet snuffed it; at least they had the good sense to top themselves before anyone else could bump them off, which was a very definite possibly. If nothing else, I was contemplating nipping into my TARDIS once I get out of here and making a trip back to do in Shakespeare before he could write the damned play.</p><p>That being said, I could get very on board with a heroic sacrifice for love from the Doctor. Assuming I stayed alive, of course; there’s no fun in being dead, even for the briefest of periods, and no fun in changing body, although it does mean I can deceive her in new, ever-wonderful ways. I’m sure I could find some poison and a dagger somewhere and leave it laying around for her to find. Failing that, I could sharpen my toothbrush and hope for the best. She’s bound to drop in at some point, surely? I could talk her into some heroic act of self-sacrifice in order to save my soul, I reckon. It wouldn’t even take much convincing, and she’d look so pretty as she bled to death, staring deep into my eyes as I did so. I do love the thought of her expressions, particularly when she realises I’ve lied to her; it would be so delicious to tell her that I don’t intend on redeeming myself just as the life left her eyes, and then stab her while she regenerated. Or perhaps not; the universe without an adversary seems rather pointless.</p><p>Oh, decisions, decisions.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 30</strong>
</p><p>One month in this shithole. I’d leave, but I’m sure my band of cretins would cease functioning entirely if I did so, and perhaps I may have grown fonder of them than I’d care to admit. We’ve got a stranglehold on the contraband market now; there’s enough X-rated magazines concealed around my cell that I feel like dear old Dotty, the Marquis de Sade’s librarian (lovely woman; must drop in on her sometime), and I’m wondering whether any of these morons have heard of the internet yet. They’d have a fit if they’d seen some of the technological marvels I have; I’m fairly sure Jonesy would have a heart attack if he encountered the ThunderShag4000 chip. It’s probably for the best I don’t mention it to him. He’s my best customer, after all.</p><p>The guards are blessedly simple creatures, praise be. A nice bribe and they’ll turn their backs, which does make shivving them all the easier. I’d feel bad about Collett getting sent to solitary, but I’m more annoyed that he got blood all over my shower shoes. At least they serve as a nice, clear warning… mess with me at your own peril.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 40</strong>
</p><p>This is a study in the psychological, and the psychiatric. Those around me are cretinous, yes, but they have their value, and they are making my days pass all the more rapidly. I’d attempt escape again, but my little science experiment is going rather well. I vaporised Collett in the shower last week, as punishment for his little stunt with the blood, and since then I’ve been left in relative peace by my fellow inmates, who all appear entirely terrified of me now. It’s a shame he screamed quite as much as he did, but the guards went down like silent, stupid logs, and watching them melt into the drains was uniquely satisfying.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 55</strong>
</p><p>Just when I think this hellhole cannot possibly get any worse, I learn that a bear has arrived on my wing. My immediate thought is of the rather brutish things that humanity insists on keeping in cages or driving away with guns, and this thought appeared initially correct – a novel form of inmate population control, I supposed, but an effective way to solve the issue of overcrowding (my weapon aside; it’s still recharging after I got through most of B-wing yesterday). Yet this bear walks on two legs and talks like a human might – if not with more eloquence, although that isn’t difficult. Is there no end to the insanity of this planet? A talking bear? Have I accidentally ended up on Peruvia-Alpha? Judging by the state of some of the men in the showers, I may well have done. Such hairy beasts! From their toes to their crowns, just a mass of hair so thick it’s hard to make out eyes. Melting them will be a relief to us all. As will melting the bear.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 57</strong>
</p><p>The bear has dyed our uniforms pink. Mine has gone from a particularly hideous shade of grey and beige to a particularly hideous shade of fuchsia pink. I look ridiculous; I feel ridiculous; and there’s no intimidating to be done when you look like an advertisement for… well, I don’t know. I’m starting to feel pangs of nostalgia for the Hole on Alcatraz. At least there, no one could judge you for looking foolish, and the escape attempts were rather more satisfying. I got rid of at least three cellmates by giving them that tip about the sewers, and the guards never cottoned on.</p><p>Oh, I must change my clothes. When the Doctor comes for me, I shall never live this down. Even purple was better than this; purple was brooding, mysterious, and interesting. Pink is garish, silly, and loud. Pink is not frightening or intimidating; pink is not the colour you wear to beat the life from your best enemy. According to the ridiculous gender binaries of this planet, the Doctor ought to be in pink while I wear blue. Perhaps that shall be my plan; perhaps I shall force her to switch clothes with me before I finally best her. I quite fancy that jacket of hers, and she would look so striking in this awful shade of fuchsia. It would match her skin as she realised that I had the upper hand; perhaps it might not show the blood quite so awfully. Does red match with pink? Who knows. Mental note – must take her coat and must not let her bleed on it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 63</strong>
</p><p>The bear has complained about the food. You couldn’t make this up – a beast, an actual beast, has objected to the food, although I must rather begrudgingly admit he has a point. He managed to win over Knuckles (ludicrousness; even I didn’t manage that, and the bloody bear isn’t psychic) so we’ve been taken off rations of gruel and slop and put onto white bread and something called marmalade, which isn’t half bad, but I’m sick of it already. It’s both orange <strong><em>and</em></strong> made of oranges, and a rather good invention for an idiotic species, but at least the slop and the gruel were served alternately. I’m sick of sandwiches already; if I wanted to eat sandwiches and wear pink, I’d have become a businessman, or something similarly asinine, or I’d have taken up following around my dear best enemy, as I’m sure this is the kind of idiocy she practises. I can’t stand this much longer; my ray gun is nearly ready and I’ve vaporised at least half of A-Block by now, so I really think they ought to let me a) take out the bear and b) walk out of here, thanks to my sterling contribution to depopulating this hellhole.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 79</strong>
</p><p>The bear has started a gardening club. There’s a plastic planter on the balcony outside my cell now, with a red-flowered plant in that looks sickeningly cheerful. Have I lost my mind utterly? I’m reasonably sure that we are here to suffer, not to attempt to grow new life. I was rather enjoying the downtrodden spirits of my fellow inmates; this sudden uptick in cheerfulness is entirely at odds with my testing regime, as I was counting on desperation and dullness to find volunteers to test the weapon on. On the upside, the addition of this ludicrous plant pot does mean I now have a useful place to conceal leftover body parts.</p><p>What did I do to deserve this? I should have tried to bribe my way off-world after the Doctor left me on the bloody Eiffel Tower, or stolen a ship from any nearby morons who came near Earth. Anything would be better than this, even Clom. I’m feeling quite nostalgic about Clom, Rassilon save me.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 85</strong>
</p><p>Today we had to sit in a circle and hold hands, sing, and ‘talk about our feelings’. I’m going to commit murder if I have to stay here much longer. I vaporised both of the bastards holding my hands; nobody touches me without my consent, unless it’s the Doctor. Even then, she’s on thin ice, especially if she tries to make me sing. She’d be into this happy-clappy hippy shit; it’s exactly the sort of thing she probably enjoys preaching to her ludicrous minions. I’m feeling quite the urge to hold her hand now; perhaps it’s something else to add to my list as I watch her die. Take the coat, don’t let her bleed on it, hold her hand. Mustn’t forget.</p><p>If this crap carries on, I’ll be doing away with the ‘counsellor’ as well. What he could counsel, I don’t know; he seems like a weedy specimen of a man, with glasses that make his eyes look gigantic (either that or he’s part fly, but the humans haven’t evolved that far, and gene-splicing themselves with flies doesn’t seem very them). I gave him my best death glare today, but we might have to amp it up to death ray instead.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 88</strong>
</p><p>Farewell, Prison. It’s been nice knowing you, but today’s the day I make my daring escape at last. I cannot stomach another bloody day of singing Kumbaya.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 89</strong>
</p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 97</strong>
</p><p>Might mess about and start a riot. They’d move me then, for sure. If I was a disruptive influence – and oh, am I – then they’d have to take me away from the bear. I’ve heard Wormwood Scrubs is nice this time of year.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 183</strong>
</p><p>Is it possible to regenerate out of sheer boredom? Or sheer desperation?</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Day 197</strong>
</p><p>Doctor, you are going to pay for this. Mark my words. You are <strong><span class="u">going. to. pay.</span></strong></p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>